Just Amanda’s blog

I just recently joined the 21^st century and got myself a blackberry phone. Actually, the hubby and I both got one. Before this, the hubby and I both had matching “flip phones” that came free with a three-year phone contract. These phones had no fancy-schmancy features like a camera or an MP3 player, and could hardly be used for scheduling meetings and the like. I remember when we got those phones two years ago; they were fairly new and somewhat popular, and came with text messaging capabilities. The hubby and I would spend our day texting each other and our friends to make lunch plans or even just to vent about the latest work drama. We thought we were technologically “in”. My, how times change.

We went to our local mobile phone dealer to take a look at what was available to us, and came across the Blackberry phones. I’d always wanted one; it seemed like anyone who was anyone in the business world carried one to keep in touch with the office while on the road, and as I’ve grown through the years career-wise, I felt it was time to become “someone”. I asked the salesman behind the counter about the phones and through our conversation, I discovered because we had been such good customers and were willing to renew our contract with them, we were able to get two new Blackberry phones for free.

That was the topping on the cake, and about ten minutes later, the hubby and I walked out of the store and into the mall main hallway, each with a brand new, green-light blinking Blackberry.

When you first get one, put it in it’s holster and connect it to your belt, it’s quite a feeling. I walked around the mall like a cowboy, and a part of me wanted to have one on each hip and then go get a cowboy hat at the San Francisco store. Packing heat, I was; just waiting and ready for my new phone to ring so I could whip it out of its holster quicker than John Wayne in “True Grit”. To be honest, the hubby and I were walking around the new Blockbuster store with him yacking my ear off about movies we haven’t rented and apparently need to; and me, nodding profusely and not listening, practically bumping into the racks, too busy playing with my new phone. Finally he said to me “You want to just go home and play with our phones?”

By the third day, and after I’d hooked up my yahoo e-mail account to my phone, did I realize the power these things have over people. I’d be out at meetings with clients and bosses and all of a sudden the steel-drum sounding ringtone would sound; loudly, alerting me to a message posted on my facebook by some friend I haven’t talked to in about three years, or informing me that I haven’t checked my MySpace in a dogs age (who needs MySpace when they have Facebook?).

Seriously, this Blackberry phone is reminding me of my sister when she was six years old, and spent her time tugging on the bottom of my shirt and demanding my attention while I would be in a conversation with one of my friends to tell me something totally unrelated, like how she ate a cookie yesterday. 

And what’s worse, is that I can’t figure out how to only have the phone ring when I actually get a phone call, as opposed to all the time, and now I’m one of those old people like my Dad who I’ve been making fun of since 1999, when we got a computer and the internet and he couldn’t figure out how to use the mouse, let alone anything else.

It’s getting so bad, that I think as of tomorrow, I will be disconnecting my yahoo mail account from my phone, and simply use it as a mobile phone.

And then I think I’ll call my Dad and apologize.  

You can call me, Holly Homemaker.

I recently made a decision to change jobs, and subsequently giving me a few days off before the start date of my new job next week. When I was told that I would have a few days to myself before going back to work, I was completely excited. It’s been forever since I’ve had some time to sleep in, relax, and maybe take care of some housework.

My first day off, I woke up at 9am, had a shower and some breakfast, and got right to it; doing the laundry, washing the dishes, sweeping and mopping the floors, and tidying the bedrooms and living room. By the time I was done, it was almost suppertime, and I had just enough time to start supper before the hubby came home. I was pleased with myself, and really felt like I’d accomplished something by the end of the day.

The next day, I woke up once again at 9am, had a shower and some breakfast just like the day before, but when I looked around for something to do, I couldn’t find anything. I flicked through the television channels and ended up spending the day, eating cheetos and watching Maury Povich.

A couple of days like this were starting to take their toll on me, and before I knew it, I was in a rut. The housework was piling up again, but I felt like I didn’t have the energy or the ambition to tackle any of it, and I was starting to feel quite depressed. All weekend, I moped around the house, eating junk food and wearing my pajamas all day.

On Tuesday, I called my Nan to see how she was doing since I hadn’t talked to her in a while. We ended up getting into a conversation about fruit, and how the hubby and I have all kinds of trouble keeping it in the house because it goes bad so quickly.

“Especially bananas,” I whined to her.

“Well, why don’t you make a banana bread with them?” she asked

To put it nicely, I’m not much of a cook of any sort. I’m one of those people who has the amazing ability to burn water, which has always been the story between the hubby and I. He’s the cook, and I’m the cleaner, and that’s just been the agreement for the past three years that we’ve been together. On the other hand, my Nan is a chef extraordinaire. She makes bread, cookies, muffins, cakes, you name it, and she makes it. The joke that has carried on to this day is when she tells one of us that she baked something; we say “I know, I could smell it all the way over here.”

After hearing her suggestion, I half laughed, half snorted at my Nan, to which she replied, “Why not? Just call me if you have any questions.”

I thought about it, and figured it’s a good opportunity to see if baking skills are hereditary. Off I went to the store to pick up flour, brown sugar, baking soda, a cake pan, and a few other things I needed. Luckily for me, my best friend Robyn is also a wondrous baker and upon a trip to Fort McMurray last year, actually went out and bought an electric mixer for me because I didn’t own one (due to an obvious lack of need for one), and also left me her super-secret recipe for chocolate chip cookies.

Once I got home, armed with almost new electric mixer, I baked all afternoon. I made banana bread AND chocolate chip cookies - and here’s the best part; they turned out great.

The hubby’s face was priceless when he got home from work. I can’t repeat the actual phrase he used, but he was shocked, surprised, and proud of me. I’m proud of me too.

It’s one step in the right direction to getting over my kitchen-phobia.

I think the hubby may need his own personal translator.

He recently took up a new job with an oil field sales company, after working in the communications biz for over eight years. His new job requires him to meet with lots of new people, and many of them, are from Canada’s favourite little island, and my birth province, Newfoundland.

I remember his first day home from his new post; he said to me “Man, I think I’ll have to get you to come to work with me tomorrow.” When I looked at him; puzzled, he said, laughing, “I think I need a Newfinese translator.”

The hubby, having lived 26 years of his life in the flat lands and farming communities of Saskatchewan, is not used to accents unless they have a German flavor. So, needless to say, if you talk too fast around the hubby, he’s usually lost before you even speak your first word to him.

I noticed his inability to understand a Newfoundland accent when he and I first moved in together. I’m still very close with my Grandparents, and when my Nan would call me up to see how we were getting settled in, we would chat for hours on end about anything and everything – and hearing her voice would bring out the accent in mine.  I would get off the phone and start telling him how I was “crooked” because the house was “maggoty” and he would look at me like I was a space cadet.

I was scared for a long time about whether or not this language barrier was going to create a problem for my own partner to communicate with my family. So, you can see why, when I came home from a late night at work a few weeks back, I was gloriously impressed with him when he told me he’d had a full blown, three-minute conversation with my Nan, about how I was working late, what time approximately I’d be home, and what the weather was like in Fort McMurray.

One phrase he gets particularly excited, or rather agitated about is a common one spoken by myself and my east cost counterparts, is “Where ya to?” translation: “Where are you?”

The first time he heard this phrase, we were in Saskatchewan, visiting my parents, when my Mom shouted the words to my sister, who was upstairs.  He didn’t know what to think.

It’s actually pretty funny to listen to my parents sometimes when they talk, and I never really noticed this until Nolan brought it to my attention, but they seem to have rid themselves of most of their accent, but kept the “phrases”.

For instance, can you imagine a Saskatchewanian saying something like, “How are you getting on, maid?” or “How are you doing, my old trout?”

At least the hubby can understand what they are saying, in this case, especially since he’s starting to develop the same traits.

Lately, he’s been coming home saying phrases like “Are you after taking out the chicken for supper?” and “Whadda you at?” and then getting a “did I just say that” look on his face.

If he keeps this up, I’ll soon need my own translator.

Before the hubby and I moved in together, we were living long distance and would entertain each other at work by sending “All Time Top Five” lists; where we would ask the other one to list our all time top five favourite movies, or top five things to do before you turn 30. We’ve now obviously found better things to do with our time, like for instance, our recent vacation we took to visit our friends and family home in Saskatchewan. In light of this, I’d like to take this opportunity to carry on the tradition by giving you my “Top Five things I learned while on vacation in Saskatchewan.”

5. You only have three choices when sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle.

The first day of vacation; we started our trek down Highway 63 at about 9am. By the time we got to Lloydminister, it was about 2pm, and I was bored to tears sitting in the passenger seat. When it comes to driving, I should have been a trucker because I can drive for hours on end, but sitting and doing nothing is not my style. I’m not sure if it was the arm pinching, or the off-key singing that put him over the edge, but it wasn’t long after Maidstone, SK that I was told I had three choices; Shut-up, go to sleep, or get out and walk.

4. A full house, under all circumstances, beats a flush.

In order to cure the boredom blues, I picked up a few lottery tickets to scratch during the drive to Estevan. I ended up winning ten dollars on a Texas Hold ‘Em card, which I tucked in the glove compartment to trade in later. While gassing up in Swift Current for the ride home, I traded in the winning ticket for two more Texas Hold ‘Em tickets, which I began to scratch as we were leaving town. The second card I scratched gave me what I thought was a win; I had a flush; and when I scratched the prize it read “One Thousand Dollars”. I began to scream “HOLY COW!” and told Nolan to immediately pull over. We were both celebrating on the side of the road when he took the card out of my hand to see it for himself. This is the conversation that ensued.

“Amanda, you didn’t win,” he said.

“What?” I said, stopping my celebratory dancing in my seat.

“We didn’t win a thousand dollars,” he said, now laughing, “You might have had a flush, but the opponent space had a full house, and a full house beats a flush.”

“You don’t think they would make an exception for me?” I said, pouting.

“You could ask, but I doubt it,” he said.

To be honest, despite my recent poker background, I didn’t really know if a full house was better than a flush, but either way I didn’t even notice the full house before I started celebrating my non-existent winnings. But now I know. And I won’t forget.

3. No matter where you go, whether it is Mexico, China, or Timbucktoo, you will always come back home with more crap than you started with.

You would think that because we were just going home to visit our parents that the amount of stuff collected inside our SUV would be somewhat limited. Or at least that’s what I thought. Just to give you an example, this is what we started with: Two suitcases, and two small bags, and a few jackets. That’s what was in the back of my vehicle when we left Fort McMurray. By the time we got back we had to lug in two (heavier) suitcases, five bags, a few jackets, three gift bags of belated Christmas and Birthday Presents from extended family members, a porch bench, and yes, ladies and gentlemen, a partridge in a pear tree. I rest my case.

2. Fishing is fun, no matter how many you catch.

Despite being born on Canada’s favourite little island, I’m not much of a swimmer/boater/marine expert. So, bearing that, you can see why I was a little nervous when Nolan and his Dad, Lyle suggested going fishing in his little fishing boat over the weekend. I cringed at the thought of three of us in this little boat that, in my mind, a strong wind could tip over, but because I wanted to be a good sport, we made an agreement that the only way I would go out there is if I was given a life jacket (and no one could make fun of me about it), and we could not travel fast in said little boat. Everyone agreed, and off the three of us went Saturday morning bright and early. The first day we went bass fishing, and I learned how to cast and even how to bait my own hook with real worms, which was undeniably pretty disgusting but pretty empowering at the same time. I only caught two that morning; one was too small and had to be thrown back in, and the second one got away. But I made up for it the next morning, catching four out of the seven that we caught. The best part about the fishing though, wasn’t how many fish we caught. It was the quality time the three of us got to spend together, and the quality time we got to spend with nature. Sounds cliché, but it’s so true.

1.This brings me to the last and final listing on my Top Five. It’s not where you go for your holidays, it’s who you get to spend it with.

We didn’t spend our two weeks on a beach in Mexico, or under the bright lights of Vegas, but we did spend it catching up with people who mean the most to us. We went fishing, and shopping; we played games and watched movies, we argued, we chatted and we just generally had a good time. It’s important to do that with the people you care about. The hubby and I came back feeling glad to be back, but more than that, glad to have had the chance to have a good time with the people we care the most about in this world - Our families. And that’s as good a vacation as any.

I’ve never been so excited about anything office-related before in my life.

The season four premiere of the television show “The Office” starts on Thursday, September 27^th, and the last time I looked forward to something this much, I was six, and the feeling lasted the entire month of December until Christmas Day.

I’ve expressed this excitement to many of my friends, colleagues, and family members, and I’ve gotten pretty mixed reviews on the subject. The last time I was home in Saskatchewan, I sat down with my parents for an episode, and while I giggled and snorted though the entire thing; Mom and Dad spent the half hour exchanging blank stares and rolling their eyes.  For whatever reason, some people just can’t seem to get into this show.

Ironically enough, however, it’s the one show the hubby and I are actually able to agree on. Any other night of the week, it’s NBC and TSN versus TLC and TBS. But when Thursday nights come around, we’re more than happy to enjoy a bowl of popcorn, and see what happens to Michael, Jim, Pam and Dwight next.

We recently made a worthwhile purchase; we bought season two and three of the Office, and whenever we feel the need for some TV bonding time, we just slip in a DVD and curl up on the couch together.

I think the appeal of the show, for me, is its ability to relate to my very own office experiences. Although, admittedly, Steve Carrell’s character’s obscene humor and immaturity is a little far-fetched for someone in a management position, I believe it still has a side of realism. Besides, I’m sure we’ve all had a boss at one point in time that made us shake our heads and wonder, “how the heck did you ever get your job?”

When you really stand back and take a look at it, or at least for me anyway, every office experience I’ve had has been loaded with characters like the ones in that show. I’ve worked with the nice guy who all the girls like, and the sweet, yet under appreciated girl, the go-getter, the guy who takes himself way too seriously, even the chatterboxes, and at one point in time, I’ve probably been all those people.

I’ve abided by the rules of jinx, I’ve played pranks using phone calls and office stationary, I acted like a bossy jerk and I participated Secret Santa and Chinese Gift Exchange.  Some of my best friends are people whom I met at the office. I even had my own office “love affair”.

For the past three seasons, most of the show has centered on the fragile friendship/ romance of Jim and Pam; and I’ve been on the edge of my seat throughout it all. I know what it’s like to feel uncertain about my feelings for someone I work in close proximity to, and whether or not it is going to jeopardize my career. But when it’s right, it’s right; something that the hubby and I have proved for three solid years.

Whether we want to believe it or not, the office is more than just work. It’s a place where people gather and meet each day. It’s interacting with one another; it’s building relationships both good, and bad; and most of all, it’s personal. Yes, business is personal. And I believe this is what “The Office” is out to prove.

I took a trip to my family doctor last week to ask about some medical concerns I had, and he said the six most feared words in my vocabulary when visiting the clinic.

You. Have. To. Get. Blood. Taken.

I fear needles like those who have arachnophobia fear spiders. I can’t stand the idea of this incredibly sharp item digging into my skin and subsequently, into my vein. It’s mostly because of an incident I had with the hospital a few years back. I was sick with a fever of 102 and needed to have blood taken. The nurse who was assigned to me brought me into the room, pulled out the needle and started wriggling it around into my arm, desperately trying to find a vein. When that arm didn’t work for her, she attempted the other one, shoving the needle in and moving it around. Four stabs later, she still hadn’t gotten a drop of blood, and was asking me if she could take my shoes off so she could get at my feet.

Needless to say, my fever didn’t stop me from telling her where she could shove that needle next.

Ever since then, I’ve been deathly scared of needles. Driving home in the car after my appointment, I started thinking about the last time I’d had blood taken. I was 21 years old, a career gal with a brand new car - and my Mom was right there for the whole thing, holding my hand.

Go ahead, make fun; I don’t care.

I scheduled my appointment for this past week, Tuesday morning to be exact, and as soon as I booked it, I spend the previous five days stressing about it; wondering who I could enlist to come with me and whether or not I really needed to get it done.  I asked the other half if he would be able to make it, and he said no because he was totally swamped with work and had appointments all morning, but told me to call him when it was all over to talk about it.

In the words of a good friend of mine, it was time for me to put on my “big girl panties” and just get on with it.

In order to make my 9:00 am appointment on time, I left the house at 8:30 am. Getting to the hospital at 8:50 am, and getting close to game time, I drove straight to the parking pass machine without checking to see if there was actually a parking spot available. Turned out to be a fantastic move on my part, because I couldn’t find anything at all available, except for one handicap spot. I thought about how huge of a deal it would be if I parked there, and quickly realized that it’s not an appropriate thing to do, especially in front of a hospital, no matter if I paid two dollars or 100 dollars for a parking pass; so I drove down the hill, and parked in a residential area.

By this time it was 9:05 am. So much for leaving early.

I made my way into the lab, turned off my cell phone, and was greeted by this really nice girl behind the counter.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I explained, “I had some trouble finding a parking spot.”

“Oh, no worries,” she laughed, “I spend my mornings driving around looking for a place to park.”

She took my information, told me that the wait might be a little long, and asked me to have a seat.

I sat there, looking around at all the other people in the waiting room, and wondering if anyone else was as nervous to be there was I was. I was too close for comfort to those needles and those crazy nurses who take pleasure in sticking them in my arms, and…

“Amanda…?” called this sweet looking, petite female nurse, “Amanda… Purcell?”

I reluctantly rose to my feet and followed her into a little room with a familiar looking chair.

“So, you’re really good at this, aren’t you?” I said, more of a statement than a question.

She laughed, “You’re a little nervous?”

I started to explain to her how scared I am in this situation, to which she told me what every other nurse in her situation has told me to do. Count to ten, and don’t look.

But really, what else is there for me to do?

She sat me down in the chair, took my arm, slid up my sleeve, and wrapped that horrid elastic band around my arm. I already had my head turned. I was already counting. My heart was beating rapidly in my throat.

And then, an amazing thing happened. I barely felt the needle. It didn’t move around in my arm, and before I knew it, it was all over.

I looked at her in astonishment. That nurse lied to me. She is not a nurse. She is a ninja. Only a ninja could have, as quietly, calmly and quickly as that, took my blood before I even realized it. The stress, the nervousness, and even the parking troubles were a mile away from me at that moment. All I felt was relief that it was over with no pain or suffering for either myself, or our ninja-nurse.

I thanked her for her help, left the room, and headed for the X-ray lab, happier than ever. It was cool. I just had a ninja take my blood.

I started a whole new chapter of my life a few weeks ago, or at least some insurance that I will reach a new chapter in my life.

I might have been a smoker, but I’ve never been a big smoker – I have friends who smoke a pack a day like they’re “popeyes candy sticks”, and I’ve always kind of considered myself lucky to never have been like that. For a long time, however, it’s been misleading. I smoked off and on for over five years, and always told myself I could quit whenever I wanted to; and I genuinely thought I could. With every failed attempt due to a night out at the bar with the girls or some bad day at work I would never blame it on my addiction; it was just life getting in the way.

I remember when I started, I was in college doing my Journalism program and taking my new found freedom and spending it on many firsts; first love, first time away from home, first time with some real responsibilities. Somehow, smoking cigarettes became a way for me to become adventurous and carefree. I felt like I wasn’t a kid anymore; I could make my own decisions, good or bad, and smoking was one of them.

Two years later, when my college days were long gone, first loves behind me, and a solid year into my first real job, the cigarettes were the only things that managed to stick with me. It was the one thing from my past that I just couldn’t shake; and as much as I hate to admit it, I loved my smoke, especially during a night on the town with my girlfriends.

When I was a single gal, living on my own, I always felt this sense of independency. I didn’t need anything but ‘me and my smoke’ to get me through the day.

I recently came in contact with a childhood friend whom I haven’t seen since I was 12 years old, and who, upon seeing pictures of me posted online, was shocked to see that a few of them featured yours truly, donning the very best Benson and Hedges money can buy.  She got me thinking back to those elementary school days.  My Mother smoked back then, and I can still see her now, outside on the front stoop with the Players Light in one hand, telling me that if she ever caught me smoking she would “cut my lips off!”

This “do as I say, not as I do” attitude obviously worked until she was out of sight and out of mind; and even today my Mom, bless her heart, is still a smoker. It was this that really changed my attitude recently.

Many of my friends and people in my age category are starting to get married and start families; and I know that it’s only a matter of time when I’ll want to jump on that bandwagon as well. But I want to do it right; I want to own a home, and a decent vehicle, and I want to have enough money in the bank that would allow me and the other half to support a child, as well as ourselves. But thinking about being sure we are ready to have a child does not just mean financially ready.  To me, it also means being healthy enough to handle a child, and also making sure the home I bring my child into is healthy as well.

It might be a few years before hubby and I are ready, but what better time then now to start preparing?

I’ve tried many times to quit smoking before, and so far I’ve turned up unsuccessful. This time around, has been two weeks, going strong (except for one recent night out where the wobbly pops got the best of me). Through this time, I’ve been irritable, I’ve been cranky, I’ve even cried a few times (and trust me, crying is NOT a word in my vocabulary), but I’m not giving up yet.  I can’t guarantee this time that it will work, but I figure I’m going to give it one good college try.

When it comes to poker night, which comes around every second weekend or so, you wouldn’t be wrong if you called me ‘one of the guys’. Let’s just say, I know when to hold ‘em.

Nolan and I play with about 6 friends of ours, all of them, guys. We sit around the poker table on Saturday nights, drink some ‘soda pops’ and bet more money than we should. I usually come out of it with at least the same amount of money I came with, which I’m pretty happy with considering I didn’t lose anything and I had a lot of fun doing it.

But it wasn’t always like that.

Learning to play poker presented a bit of a curve for me, especially considering my teacher. Nolan, a self-described poker-king, asked me one afternoon before going out for a night of cards if I wanted to come with him.

“But I don’t know how to play,” I’d whined.

“Don’t worry. Take out the cards and I’ll teach you,” he’d said.

We ended up spending all afternoon and all through supper playing poker for pennies, dimes and nickels.

Guess who won.

I’ll give you a hint. It doesn’t rhyme with ‘me’.

He beat me hand after hand, and never felt guilty for any of it. He would just say, “Well, you shouldn’t be betting on a 2, 3 unsuited when there is an ace on the board” or “That’s what you get for betting on a pair of 5’s when I already showed you that I have a full house”.

It took a little while for me to learn.

But once I did, I was kicking butts and taking names. I loved the feeling I got when I bet heavy on a hand and the other guys would “Oooooooh” in response. It was an even better feeling when I won. But playing against Nolan usually means I will be at the very best, in second place, because it’s not often that I beat him.

Lately, before bed, while I watch TV, Nolan’s been reading. The first night he pulled out his book, I looked at the cover, which read “Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book”, with a picture of some poker chips on the front.

I immediately questioned this; he is already too good a poker as it is, so I said to him, “What’s this? Was I getting too good for you that now you have to start getting tips from the pros?” To which he laughed at me and just continued reading.

He’s been reading this book for about a week now, and I’ve been noticing little differences that I’m pretty unsettled about.

While playing at the guy’s house one night, he started calling my bluff on a hand that no one else suspected, won the hand, and told me later the only thing that tipped him off was that I was slumping during the hand.

And it’s not just around the table that he’s been a regular Miss Cleo, but around the house as well. Just a few afternoons ago, we were both home for lunch and watching paternity tests on Maury Povich. Nolan was announcing the tests even before Maury was (You ARE the Father! You are NOT the Father!) And all based on the actions of the girls when Maury was interviewing them.

It really puts a damper on my plans when I’m planning to go out with the girls and Nolan says, “Where are you going?” and I say “Umm… not to the bar”. Turns out, it’s written all over my face.

I’m just glad my parents didn’t read that stupid book, or I’m sure I’d be incarcerated by now.

However, Phil Gordon’s little book of tricks is not all bad. Last poker night that we attended turned out in our favor when Nolan managed to take everyone’s money and came out with $200. Turns out that even when he beats me, as long as he beats everyone else, I still win.

Or at least that’s what my new pair of stilettos is telling me.

Have you joined Facebook yet?

I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked that question in the past few months.

Like many of my friends, I’ve been spending the past couple of months using up all of my willpower trying not to log on to www.facebook.com at work.

Maybe you know what I mean. Facebook.com is an online site, which enables you to create your own profile, find friends and family members, and meet new people who are members of the site.

But the best (or worst) thing about it is that you can see, all the time, what others are doing. It’s really become a stalkers’ best friend.

You can update your “status” on the site, where you specify what it is you are doing today, or if you are going anywhere. For example, my own current status on the site is “Amanda is back in the McMurr”, as I am just back from a trip out of town.

Secondly, whenever I type a message on a friend’s wall (their profile page), change my status, add pictures, or do just about anything, anyone on my friends list can see what I’ve done.

Any one of my friends, those who know me well, those who live in Fort McMurray, and even those who I haven’t seen in years - if they are on my ‘facebook friends list’ they know that I went as Diana Ross for Halloween in 2005, that I really love to watch The Office, and that I recently called my old radio afternoon show partner a “creeper” because his profile picture looks weird.

That much knowledge can be a lot to handle.

To be honest, I had no intentions of joining this site. Many of my friends had joined it, and filled my inbox up with requests for me to join, but I initially stood my ground.

To me, it didn’t make sense. I was already a member of the myspace.com website. Wasn’t that good enough for them?

But after being at numerous outings where I was photographed doing some, let’s just say, interestingly amusing things at a few parties while having a few soda pops I called the photographer in question to see these pictures in their true hilarious form.

She said, “ They’re all on Facebook. Haven’t you seen them yet?”

Nope, I sure hadn’t, because I wasn’t a member, but that was all about to change.

I joined Facebook, and I was immediately hooked.

They say there is no trying heroin, because after the first time you try it, you’re completely addicted.

Well, I’ve never tried heroin before (and I certainly don’t intend to) but there I was, sitting at the computer screen for hours on end, compulsively looking up people I hadn’t seen for five ten, and even fifteen years and adding them to my friends list.

It took a few weeks for the novelty to wear off and now I’m down to about three to four site visits a day.

And; now that the wool has been metaphorically somewhat pulled from my eyes, it’s a little easier for me to see just how silly we all are.

For example, a girl who went to my high school recently added me to her friends list. I’d noticed on her profile that she was “in a relationship” with a guy I didn’t know. She was just graduating college, as well.

Good for her, I’d thought, she seems like she really has gotten her life together since high school.

A few days later, I noticed an update on her profile, which stated that her and her guy had just “downgraded” their “status” to “in a complicated relationship”.

The next day she listed herself as “single”.

I have to be honest; if the Mr. and I suddenly decided to take a trip to splitsville, I certainly wouldn’t take time out from the plate tossing to log on to facebook and announce to everyone that our relationship is on the rocks.

That is just a little too personal for me.

And another thing, I don’t know how many more times I can take being “poked”; the virtual poke is seriously just as annoying as the real life poke, just without the pain.

Maybe they’ll be adding the virtual pain at a later date.

Maybe after that, they’ll add the virtual slap (call me violent, but isn’t that a normal reaction to someone who is poking you?).

Lately, in the media, facebook.com has been getting a lot of negative attention, saying it’s a distraction to people at work.

And although, I obviously agree that facebook is addicting, I also think that surfing the web is just as addicting, and just as much of a time waster at work.

It’s no new story that people are wasting time at work. It’s just that they didn’t all waste time doing the same thing before.

Some people sent e-mails and funny (or not-so-funny) forwards, others blogged, and even more checked online stories, news, etc…

But now, with facebook.com and the whole “infatuation” issue, everyone is spending their time looking at everyone else’s “status” and finding people they haven’t seen in a dogs age.

Surprise, boss man! Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

I bet if you try it though, you’ll understand…

So, I thought you might be disappointed if I didn't write an update. So here it is...

Nolan and I made the trek all the way down highway 63 last weekend for the John Mayer concert in Edmonton at Rexall Place.

For those who don’t already know, John Mayer and his music could be considered one of the most wonderful and pleasurable things in my life.

Nolan and I were hanging out watching the tube on the Thursday before the concert when he drops this ball on me: “What if I told you that you and I were actually going to meet John Mayer?” while taking out his confirmation e-mail to prove it.

I’d be lying if I said I was calm about the whole thing. Let’s just say, tears were shed.

The entire Saturday morning drive was spent with silence, and me, rehearsing my speech and creating ‘worst-possible scenarios’ in my head.

Pictures - John Mayer Concert 07 008

My honest worst fear coming out of this thing was that, despite his easy-going demeanor, John Mayer was secretly a jerk, and I would have to find this out the hard way.

And that is just too much for me. I’m not sure, nor do I care to know how life would be for me if I hated John Mayer. I like liking John Mayer. I like liking his music. And I wanted to keep it that way.

Just after Wandering River, Nolan started questioning my distant behaviour, and I explained my fears to him.

He comforted me, by using a line that I don’t think I will ever forget.

He said, “Amanda, you know, everybody poops.”
When he said it, my immediate reaction was to laugh at his comment. And I did. Hard.

But once I sat there in the car and thought about it, it made so much sense to me. John is a human. He makes mistakes. He’s not this God-like creature, or hero that I’ve made him out to be in my head. He might be just as nervous to meet me, and the slew of other fans that will be in his face, as I am to meet him.

Armed with this new outlook, I started re-thinking how this meet and greet would go. What would I say to him? More importantly, what would me say to me? Suddenly, I remembered how tall John Mayer is; six foot three I believe, and then I remembered how not so tall I am.

Pictures - John Mayer Concert 07 021

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It’s kind of a sore spot with me; as it’s a common occurrence for people I’ve just met to tell me how short I am (to which I “politely” comment on their observant nature) and I realized that this is what would happen. John will comment on my height, I thought, and I might as well just prepare myself for it.

When I mentioned this theory to Nolan, however, he didn’t agree and told me he thought John Mayer was much too nice of a guy to do such a thing.

I was not convinced, and therefore we did what any other regular couple would do. We made a bet on it.

Twenty bucks, to be exact; and I thought I had it in the bag.

But we get backstage, and shake John’s hand, and the sharpie had already come out for the autographs, but he still hadn’t talked once about my height.

So, just before we get our picture taken with him, I try to take fate into my own hands.

Amanda, Nolan and John Mayer

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I say sweetly, “John, you know, you’re just too tall,” just before we’re ready to pose for the photo.

But instead of whipping out his best short joke, he says, “I know. How about we meet in the middle?” and slumps down on my side so that he’s not towering over me.

After that, I was love-drunk; I set out the bait, and he didn’t even take it.

Which is why I feel bad when I say; John Mayer definitely owes me twenty bucks for being such a nice guy.